Clamorous!
Buzzing!
It was lunchtime after morning training.
Sweat-soaked disciples sat around the dining hall, chatting away. These were the third-generation disciples, the next generation carrying Point Cang's future on their shoulders.
This year marked between eleven and fifteen years since they had entered the sect.
'Thirteen to eleven years, to be precise.'
As the eldest disciple, he himself had climbed Point Cang Mountain at the age of four, sixteen years ago. The youngest junior brother had joined five years later.
'...This just doesn't feel real. Not at all.'
It had been four days since he returned to the past—thanks(?) to the schemes of his lifelong rival, Hye-jong.
Yet Gwang-il still couldn't fully accept his changed circumstances.
'Where the hell do I even start?'
Right now, he was just a green third-generation disciple barely reaching his twenties. With ten years until the Beast Palace invasion, preparation felt utterly daunting.
'Raising my own power won't be hard. But...'
No matter how peerless he was, he couldn't take on the entire Beast Palace alone.
The Beast Palace Lord was a supreme master who rivaled even his Dark Heaven Emperor self back then.
Even if he somehow defeated the lord, he wouldn't emerge unscathed.
In the end, the rest of the sect had to step up—doubling, tripling their roles.
Because...
'The numbers are just too lopsided.'
The Southern Barbarian Beast Palace had conquered all the barbarian lands south of Yun Province, forming a massive force akin to a nation.
Point Cang, meanwhile, was infamous among the Nine Great Sects for having the fewest disciples.
Geography in Yun Province made recruitment tough compared to other sects drawing talents from across the land. Cold fact: their disciples' aptitudes suffered as a result.
They accepted anyone with the bare minimum martial talent—no real entrance exam needed.
"Hey, you punk! I said knock it off!"
"Mmfghrgh!"
"You damn brat?!"
Hahahahaha!
Strange noises erupted from a nearby table.
"Hoo..."
Gwang-il clutched his throbbing head and let out a deep sigh.
Even for kids in their early teens...
How could disciples of mighty Point Cang engage in such childish antics...?
Splash!
"Gah?!"
"E-Eldest senior brother!"
"Uwaaa! We're dead...!"
"..."
A sudden wet warmth soaked his lower back.
Gwang-il squeezed his eyes shut, fists clenching until his knuckles whitened.
'These damn punks...!'
The fond voices of his junior brothers—longed for his entire life.
The joy lasted exactly three days.
'While the Beast Palace sharpens their claws day and night to ravage our sect...!'
How could they be so utterly irresponsible?!
Scrape!
Drenched in some sour soup he couldn't identify, Gwang-il rose silently.
He glared fiercely at the frozen juniors behind him for a moment.
"...Haaa."
Their wide, pleading eyes stared back.
He couldn't bring himself to voice his rage.
With a weary wave, he dismissed them—that was all he could manage.
'What can I do to these tiny things?'
He couldn't half-kill them or beat them senseless like in his Evil Path Alliance days.
Over the past three days, he'd fully grasped that he was no longer the Dark Heaven Emperor who unified the unorthodox sects with a single sword.
"Be more careful with your actions... Pay attention."
"Yes."
"Got it, Eldest Senior Brother!"
Spotting their pardon, the juniors scampered off like a herd.
His irritation peaked—he barely suppressed the urge to chase and kick them.
Then...
"Hey! I said stooop!"
"Eeeeek! You little shit! Shut your trap!"
The shrill yells that had grated on his nerves from the start finally flipped his switch.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
"Hooo... Damn it! What the hell am I supposed to do?"
He'd finally dragged the cafeteria troublemakers out and beaten them soundly.
Back in his quarters, Gwang-il flopped to the floor, clutching his despairing face with both hands.
"At this rate, history will repeat itself...!"
These kids—barely talented, downright average...
'Can they really grow strong enough to face the Beast Palace in ten years?'
Could he really make it happen?
Maybe it'd be faster to just die and reincarnate...
"Aaa...! Haaaa!"
A sudden thought pierced his mind.
Unable to bear the frustration, he sprawled flat on the floor.
"Ughhh! Hye-jong, you bald bastard monk...! Did you know this would happen and screw me over?!"
Just four days into regression, resentment and suspicion boiled over.
He yanked at his hair, agonizing endlessly.
After wrestling his pounding head in his room for ages, Gwang-il pushed himself up, steeling his shaky resolve.
"...I can't abandon them. Not a single one."
That was absolutely out of the question.
These were the moments he'd regretted and yearned for over thirty tearful years.
If he could face his senior brothers, sect elders, and master again...
He'd protect the name of Point Cang, no matter the cost.
He'd sworn it to himself a thousand times.
"I need a drastic measure. This way, history repeats."
So, how?
"Hmm."
How could he turn these brats into proper swordsmen in ten years?
Facing this agonizing puzzle, Gwang-il sank into deep thought once more.
After a sleepless night of groaning without answers...
"Third-generation disciple Gwang-il humbly requests an audience with the Sect Leader."
He had no choice but to charge straight ahead.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
"Ho ho, yes. How's your training going lately?"
"Of course. I immerse myself in the sword day and night."
It was true.
Apart from fretting over the sect's perilous future, he poured ten out of twelve hours daily into training.
Even that might not get him back to his past peak in ten years.
'I'll have to gather those elixirs I used before.'
Back when he roamed south of the Yangtze, subduing unorthodox sects, the Shadow Gate Leader and Golden Dragon Merchant Leader supplied him with rare spirit medicines.
They fueled his growth—undeniable.
Now, he had to reclaim thirty years of achievements in just a third of that time.
'Even this chit-chat is a luxury I can't afford.'
Yet this meeting was a prerequisite to pursuing his goals.
"Ho ho hot! That's commendable, truly touching. But at your age, no need to push so hard."
"It's simply what this disciple desires."
'If I don't, we'll all die, Sect Leader.'
Unable to voice his desperation, Gwang-il straightened his expression and slowly broached the prepared main topic.
"Might I ask what you believe is the outstanding feature of Point Cang's swordsmanship?"
"Hm? Ho ho, the outstanding feature... Easy enough to answer, but don't you have your own master?"
A subtle rebuke: Why skip your master to discuss sword theory with me?
But Gwang-il, with firm purpose, pressed on stubbornly.
"Before making a grave proposal as the eldest third-generation disciple, I boldly seek to glimpse the Sect Leader's thoughts. Forgive this disciple's impertinence."
"What? Ho ho hot! Fine, fine. You're my direct-line grand-disciple—how could I refuse such a trifle?"
Struck by Gwang-il's unusually mature demeanor, Sect Leader Gwan-hae smiled warmly, pondering deeply.
He was a proper young man past puberty.
Knowing the doubts plaguing young martial artists, Gwan-hae wanted to give a memorable answer as grand-master and Sect Leader.
After a weighty silence of about an hourglass...
"In my view, the excellence of Point Cang's sword lies in the thrust—the stab."
"..."
"Countless sword sects and schools exist across the orthodox and unorthodox worlds. Yet Point Cang alone specializes in the thrust."
The expected answer.
The hoped-for answer.
'Now comes the real test.'
Judging the groundwork laid, Gwang-il licked his dry lips nervously.
He knew the response to his next words wouldn't be kind.
But he had to say it.
'It's Point Cang's only path to survival.'
The conclusion after a night of head-splitting agony.
It emerged slowly from the mouth of this mere third-generation disciple, deliberate and unwavering.
"Disciple boldly requests of the Sect Leader, without preamble."
"Hm?"
Scrape.
Thud.
With a resolute expression, he stood and knelt on the floor.
"Gwang-il!"
"Grant permission to wield the Narrow Tip Sword, symbol of our sect's ancestors from ages past, Sect Leader."
"Narrow Tip Sword?! Ho...! What is this sudden—!"
"Our sect needs no slashes. One-strike-kill thrusts. That's all we require."
"Wh-what?!"
A radical—nay, extreme—proposal from a mere third-generation disciple to the Sect Leader.
Frozen by the unforeseen words, Gwan-hae faced Gwang-il, who prostrated fully and pleaded fervently once more.
"The double-edged sword doesn't suit our sword arts. Sect Leader! Make the decision...!"
"Gwang-il, you brat! What nonsense is this?! No need for slashes? Double-edged unfit?!"
"Sect Leader...!"
"How much do you know of our sect's swordsmanship to spout such arrogance?!"
His kindly smile vanished; thunderous roars followed.
Seeing demonic obsession in Gwang-il's eyes, Gwan-hae's gaze held no compromise—pure resolve.
"You're barely first-rate! How dare you speak so brazenly?!"
"..."
"Before your sect elder, such reckless ravings...!"
"Let this disciple prove it."
"...What?"
A quiet plea amid the harsh rebukes.
Gwan-hae's fierce glare twitched his thick eyebrows.
'Hah! This kid really...!'
Gwang-il seemed utterly stubborn, headstrong from maturity.
His face twisted ferociously, but inwardly, worry swelled.
"This disciple will prove it. One year. Just one year with the Narrow Tip Sword, as I wish. Grant it, Sect Leader."
"...And if granted? What will you prove in a mere year?"
A long time in life, but in martial arts, one year could pass like days.
Especially insufficient for grand achievements.
Gwan-hae couldn't fathom his intent.
But Gwang-il had long abandoned persuasion by words...
"Exactly one year from now. I'll defeat Master and the senior uncles."
"What?!"
"With only the Narrow Tip Sword and thrusts. Please, Sect Leader, don't refuse this plea."
Blasphemy warranting severe punishment.
Yet the speaker remained utterly calm, unshaken.
As if it were a foregone conclusion.
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